The Well
By Alva J.
Roberts
The Carcel was
an ancient structure. The thick gray granite of the walls spoke of enduring
strength, while the light killing shadows in the corners and on the ceilings
spoke of something altogether more sinister. There was a weight to the darkness
a palpable feel to it as if one could reach out and grab a piece of it and hold
it in their hands. The structure was buried thirty feet below the surface of a
mountain; the few stray beams of light that made it into the depths died there.
As
Garron, the High Sentinel, walked the smooth paths worn into the stone floors
by a hundred generations of Sentinels, he felt fear tearing at his gut. It was
a familiar fear, one he had dealt with many times before. He fought it off with
the sword of duty and the shield of determination.
Garron
stopped in a doorway before proceeding. He was no longer what anyone would call
a young man, and he was finding the preparations for using magic were taking
him longer and longer. This was a part of the great balance; as his power grew,
it became increasingly harder to use.
As
he felt his power fill him, he drew in a breath and walked forward. Even after
holding his position as High Sentinel for fifteen years, he still shivered when
he entered the Chamber. The huge cavern stretched out in every direction,
making it feel as if he was standing on a small island of light in a sea of
inky blackness.
Huge,
rough cut crystal pillars were spaced at irregular intervals around the cavern.
Five of the pillars glowed with a faint green light, while hundreds more lay
dormant. There so few left, so little magic remained. Once wells of magical
power like the Carcel were every everywhere; those that had the skill could
draw magic from them the way villagers drew water from a well. Those days were
barely a memory.
Sometimes Garron
wondered if his duties were still necessary. The Carcel could practically run
itself.
Something inside
one of the huge crystals moved and the light became noticeably brighter. This
was what reminded him that a Sentinel was needed. This is why he had spent over
a hundred years in the depths of the Carcel, the magic extending his life long
past what it should have been.
Garron’s
hand swept through the forms of magic and his mouth formed words in the
language of the ancient Tholan Empire, the world conquerors. He felt the magic
well up inside of him in the same manner as laughter bubbling to the surface.
The magic wrapped around the creature inside the pillar.
Garron's
hand reached to the stand in front of him to grip the Staff of Sentinels. The
length of wood was one of the few magical artifacts that were allowed in the
Carcel, but unlike the baubles that were created for the wealthy, the Staff
created magic rather than using it. Over twenty past Sentinels had given their
lifeforce to the staff. It was well of power, one Garron was loath to use if he
did not need to. Once used, the magic would be lost.
There
was a struggle then, a battle, a war. An observer would have seen nothing, just
Garron standing in a circle of light staring intently at the crystal monolith. Had
that same observer been able to see a physical manifestation of the battle of
wills that raged before them, they would have seen two Titans that dwarfed the
mountains laboring against each other.
Garron had the
upper hand, by the very nature of the conflict. He drew his power from the demons
imprisoned in the crystals, using them as a well to draw magic from. The vile
beings captured in the crystals were fighting against themselves when they
attempted to escape.
The war of wills
raged on for the better part of two days. The creatures imprisoned within the
pillars had only escaped three times since the founding of the Carcel nine
centuries before. Each time it was by pushing the Sentinel beyond endurance. But
there were many times that the creatures touched the world with their dark
powers. That was the reason why the Carcel was never completely dark. Vile
things could be born from the dark. But Garron did not allow this demon’s power
to touch the world.
Finally the
creature gave up its attempt and grew silent. Garron reached a hand out to
another of the pillars to steady himself. Sweat rolled down his cheeks to drip
off his chin. He was tired; his body ached and throbbed as if the battle had
been a physical one.
“High Sentinel?
Is it done? May I enter?” one of Garron’s apprentices asked from the doorway.
Garron peered across the chamber. His apprentice was a young man, with thick
brown hair and a slender build. Garron stared at the man; this was the
apprentice's fourth year in the Carcel. Garron spoke with him every day, but
right now he could not remember his name. He was just one in a seemingly
endless stream of young men and women who worked with him in the Carcel.
He currently had
six such men and women and at the moment he could not remember any of their
names. Such things happened when you entered a mental battle with a demon, but
it was still disturbing. The boy was a friend as well as a student. Garron
should remember his name.
"Yes, it is
over," Garron said. Was the boy's name Harold? Hemald? Harrin? Harold?
Yes. Harold.
"Sentinel
Marcus sent word. There are Hunters,"
Harold said in an awed whisper, stressing the final word, giving it special
meaning, “they have a thousand men outside, but only twenty came inside.” Garron
forgave him his excitement. No member of the Order of the Chase had come to
Carcel in nearly seventy years. Harold had good reason to be excited and a
little scared.
"Send word
to the other Sentinels. There shall be an Algather. And send word to Marcus. Have
him welcome the guests and let them rest from the rigors of the road. Food and
other such things," Garron replied. A meeting of every Sentinel in the
Carcel was nearly as rare as a visit from the Hunters. The apprentice quarters
would be abuzz with gossip. "Now help me to my rooms. I need to prepare
myself," Garron said. His left hand shot out to grab the boy's shoulder. Even
with the messengers running, it would take some time for word to spread through
the rambling vastness of the Carcel, then even more time for the Sentinels to come.
Garron had at least four hours, perhaps more, to regain his facilities and
preside over a meeting that could change his very way of life. Garron limped
from the Chamber on unsteady feet.
***
The
old man staggered from the room with his hand on a boy's shoulder. Nahl-thenor watched,
a sneer of disgust crossing his ancient, ruined face. The human was getting
old, just as hundreds of his predecessors had before. Nahl-thenor had tested
the old man's will and found it as strong as ever, but this High Sentinel had
never needed help to leave the Chamber before.
He
had felt his plan coming to fruition and needed to test his opposition. The
timing was perfect. There was no way the current High Sentinel could know of
his plans; they had begun when he was a boy, a mere apprentice. Soon Nahl-thenor
and his brethren that still lived would be free.
The Empire of
Pain would be reborn. Even the mighty Tholan Empire had bowed down to them. The
shattered remnant of the kingdoms that came after would provide little in the
way of a challenge. The magic of this world was dead. Once he and his brothers
were free, even the power the Sentinels siphoned off of them would no longer be
theirs. It took Nahl-thenor a few moments to realize the death bone rattle of a
sound he was hearing was his own laughter, which made him laugh all the harder…
***
The
great hall gleamed with pure white magical light. The polished granite
reflected the light, as if the hard stone from the Earth’s heart was trying to
eject it from the cavern. Garron shaded his eyes against the glare with his
hands. It had been years since the Hall had been used for anything. The immense
size of the cavern only served to remind him of just how small the Order of the
Protector had grown.
The
huge room had been built to house the twenty thousand Sentinels and
apprentices. Fewer than a hundred men and women were now standing in the
enormous space. Garron felt a small sliver of uncertainty worm its way up his
spine.
According
to Nolan's Great Bureaucracy, the High Sentinel and the Grand Huntsmaster were
equals, to be given the same honors and treatment. But Nolan's kingdom had
succumbed to the ravages of time nearly two hundred years ago. There was
nothing to hold the Hunter's to the rules laid forth in the seventy-nine
volumes of the Bureaucracy other than tradition.
Garron
could not even blame the Order of the Chase if they chose to conquer the Carcel
and take it as their own. Of the twelve remaining Orders, the Order of the
Protector was by far the weakest. If Garron had been the Huntsmaster, he was
not sure if he would have allowed the Sentinels to continue in their duty of
guarding the Carcel. Every Order’s wizards used the Carcel as a magical well of
power. It was a valuable resource to all of them.
Garron
jerked his hand away from his eyes as a group of men entered the room. The men
towered head and shoulders above Garron, and they were three times as wide as
he was in the shoulders. Thick black hair covered most of their visible skin,
but a circle of weathered skin surrounded their eyes.
Garron
tried to stand a little taller and forced down the slight tremor that ran
through his arms. The Carcel still gave him power, power enough to destroy
these men where they stood. Despite their size and their numbers, if they came
to make war with the Order of the Protector they were in for an awful surprise.
"I
am Garron, High Sentinel of the Order of the Protector, Lord Ruler of the
Carcel. I give greetings and welcome to those that come in peace," Garron's voice echoed eerily through the
chamber. The words, those that come in peace, seemed somehow amplified as
Garron attempted to make the men wonder what would happen to those that did not
come in peace.
"Well
met, Garron. I am Gunthar, Huntsmaster of the Order of the Chase, Crown Prince
of Lowfort, second born son of Grand Huntmaster Alric, King of Lowfort,"
one of the men said as he stepped forward. The man was younger than the others,
but had an air of command about him that Garron could have only dreamed of at
his age. Despite his growing respect Garron, closed his eyes and prepared to
use his magic. If the Huntsmasters were claiming to be Kings and Princes, much
had changed and Garron needed to be ready.
Perhaps the
Huntsmaster could sense the power Garron called upon. His hands slipped down to
rest on his Kalhi, the magical dagger-like weapons were sharper than steel and
could launch beams of solid light far more accurately than any bow could shoot
an arrow. The wizards among the Order of the Chase had always had a different
outlook on the use of magic. Even in Nolan’s time, they had been famous the
world over for the artifacts they created. Still, it was a surprise to see an
entire group of men wearing the Kalhi. The weapons were becoming rare.
"Why
have you come to the Carcel?" Garron asked. The power of his magic colored
his voice making it sound strange and hollow.
"In
accordance with the ancient laws, the Huntsmasters deliver this creature onto
you. We have given chase deep in the night, and the hunters have captured their
prey. Let the darkness fear the Hunt," Gunthar said.
"Let
the darkness remain here, and no longer trouble the world," Garron replied
formally. He had never thought he would have to say the words. The icy touch of
fear grabbed ahold of Garron; it froze his chest and made it hard to speak or
breath.
Low,
incredulous whispers filled the hall.
But
then a few breaths later, the Hunters stepped aside to reveal the being that
hid in their midst the entire time. Garron sucked in a breath.
The
thing was silmy green and appeared to be made of mucus. The green liquid seemed
to flow from every part of its body, only to be drawn in again. It was a
Plas-man, a minor demon, a relatively weak specimen compared the giant Daemon
they had locked in the crystals. But Garron's magic hurtled forward forming a
blue glowing rope made of pure energy that wrapped around the creature. It could
escape any other bindings and, unless bound, brought disease and plague.
"How-,"Garron
stopped. "No. Where did this
thing come from? There hasn't been a free demon captured in over five hundred
years."
"We
found the creature in the forest. Three tribes were killed by this…thing. The
men, the women, the children…the children I have never seen such-,"
Gunthor stopped and took a deep breath. "Fifty Hunters died to capture it
and bring it here. As was agreed in the days of old, the Order of the Chase has
brought the darkness to you. Now it is your problem." Gunthor turned and
led his party from the hall as he spoke. Garron made no move to stop him.
Instead,
he spoke a few simple words, “Huntsmaster, I invite you and your party to share
our fires and food. You have traveled far; do not begin your journey anew without
rest. You are welcome here. Please allow my apprentice, Harold, to show you to
your rooms.” The offer of food and a place to sleep for the night could not be honorably
refused. The Hunters would be staying. In the morning, after the Shackling,
Garron would get the full story about how the creature was discovered.
"Sentinels,
take over the binding. I have already overpowered a Daemon today. I am not at
my full strength," Garron said to the chamber as soon as the Hunters left.
There was no way they could let the Order of the Chase find out how weak he
was.
A
dozen bindings leapt from the crowd and a murmur ran through them. Most of them
needed to rest for days after Reshackling a Daemon.
"Take
this creature to the Heart and keep it bound. I will consult the wind and stars
to see if I can find where this creature came from and see if any of its
kindred are awake. The spirits of the wind cannot see through the crystal
pillars. We will Shackle it in the morning." Garron could not help but
smile to himself despite everything that was happening. The wind and stars
could only be spoken to in dreams. He would be getting some sleep after all.
***
Garron
leapt from his bed. “Lights,” he shouted. Orbs of light sprang to life at his
command. They were one of the few enchanted artifacts in the entire Carcel. The
Order of the Protector held that such things were too dangerous. Magic did not
belong in the hands of those that could not cast a spell themselves. His tiny
room was sparsely furnished. A bed, a table, a chair; there was nothing to mark
his rank in the room. The only thing that distinguished it from a farmer’s home
was the orbs, the lack of windows, and the shelf full of books.
Some
of the volumes were old and rare; many of them were the last remaining copies
of their respective text. They came from all over the world and had been
gathered slowly over the past nine centuries. But the text he was looking for
had not been written anywhere exotic. In fact it had been written right here in
the Carcel, by the last High Sentinel. Garron sprinted across the room and
jerked one of the larger more ornate volumes off the shelf. An odd looking
fanged creature dominated the cover in shimmering gold etchings.
Garron
literally threw open the book, flipping through pages as fast as he could turn
them. He would have punished an apprentice who treated a book in such a manner,
but there was no time.
He
had entered the dream world and consulted with the wind and stars, and what the
cosmic entities told him frightened him to the core of his being.
“Nahl-thenor,”
he whispered out loud when he found the page he was looking for. The page was
an account of Nahl-thenor’s last attempt at escape. The Daemon he had struggled
against before had nearly escaped under the last High Sentinel’s watch. The
creature had released dark magic in the forest near Lowfort. A party sent to
investigate had found almost nothing, just a small patch of forest were the
balance of nature had been corrupted.
Everything
became clear to Garron. The powerful Daemon could touch the world but could not
force his way past the High Sentinel. So instead of trying, he released his
power into the world, knowing it would corrupt the balance of the world. And
when nature reset the balance and thrust off the darkness a minor demon was
created.
This new
creature was nothing more than an extension of Nahl-thenor, and once they were
in the same room… A tremor ran through Garron’s entire body as he reached out
for his magic. Power flowed into him but it was just a tiny trickle where once
there was a raging river.
Garron
threw his robes of office on over his dressing gown and hurried to the hallway
and opened the aged oaken door. The thick shadows of the Carcel filled the
corridor with an almost tangible darkness. The Carcel was silent as a tomb.
Garron
grimaced. The passageways of the Carcel were never completely dark. He
whispered a word of magic and a small orb of light appeared over his head. Just hours ago, the same spell would have lit
the entire hall. If there had been any doubt before, there was none now.
Nahl-thenor was free, and Garron could no longer use him as a well to draw
magical power from.
Garron
ran through the halls, his footfalls the only sound. The High Sentinel could
not see anything around him, but he could feel eyes staring... Hate filled eyes
that watched his every move. There was no time. The creatures’ fear of the High
Sentinel would soon be overcome by their hatred. If they tried to test him, he
was not sure he would win.
He
finally came to the door he was seeking and threw it open. “Harold, Elaina,
Michael, David, Cara, Sara, to arms!” Garron shouted the names of each
apprentice. There was no way to defeat the Daemon on his own.
The
huge pool of blood cooling on the floor stilled his call to action. Blood was
spattered over everything. Even the ceiling was painted with the crimson
droplets. A pile of mangled flesh lay in the center of the room, the lone hand
thrusting from the center of the pile the only indication that the mass was
anything more than a mound of raw bloody meat.
Garron
bent over double and emptied his stomach. He stumbled from the room, wishing he
could burn the sight from his memory.
Something
slammed into Garron’s back knocking him to the ground. A huge heavy body was on
top of Garron. He couldn’t move, couldn’t draw enough breath to use his magic
the massive creature had him at its will.
“Douse
the light, quickly you fool,” a harsh voice whispered. Garron let out a gasp of
relief when he recognized the voice of Huntsmaster Gunthar. He flicked his hand
through a mystical motion and they were plunged into darkness.
"The
monster and his minions hunt the halls for the living. Stay quiet and I will guide
you from this tomb," Gunthar ordered. Garron pulled away from the big man.
"I
am not leaving. This is no Plas-man able to kill fifty hunters. A true Daemon
is loose upon the world. He will free his brothers if he is able. The wells of
magic that remain in this world are few and far between. There would be no
force that could stand against them. We must stop him now, before the other Daemon
are free," Garron said.
"I
watched the monster kill my entire party and two of your Sentinels as easily as
I could kill a child. He left me alive, toying with me. He did it to another as
well. The one you call Harold is still alive, at least he was. He has probably
fled. I saw the demon's eyes. It longs for the hunt, to give chase. I am
leaving before it can find me," Gunthar replied.
Garron
turned his back to the Hunter. "Do as you see fit, I will do my duty." "Ahhcckkk.
You know our ways. I cannot return home and tell my father that a bent back,
soft robe, remembered his honor when I did not. Is there truly a way to defeat
this thing and his minions?"
"If
we can make it to the Binding Chamber there is a chance. The Staff of Sentinels
is a well of magic. I may be able to defeat the creature with it,” Garron
replied. He could not help but be pleased his manipulation of the Hunter.
"Then
let us hurry to this Binding Chamber. Take these." Something was thrust
into Garron's hands. It felt like a pair of spectacles.
"What
are these?" Garron asked.
"As
per our agreement of centuries past, the enchanters of the Huntmasters still
use the Carcel as a well to create items of magic. These are growing rare and
are desired by all."
Garron
put the spectacles on and the room sprang into vision. Everything was tinted
crimson but he could see. Garron spun around the taking in the caverns around
him. The spectacles were not perfect — patches of darkness remained on the
ceiling and in the corners of the room — but it was far better than his globe
of light.
"Thank
you," Garron said.
"Enough.
We must move. The hunt has begun, the Shadows seek us as their prey. Let us
become the hunters."
"Follow
me," Garron replied and rushed down the hall. Garron had barely made it
half the distance to the binding chamber when his lungs started to burn and his
legs ached. Something darted down from the darkness near the ceiling. It
swooped down slicing into the back of Garron's legs. Garron let out a scream,
as razor sharp ice cold darkness sliced into his hamstring.
Gunthar
leapt forward and a small beam of light shot from his Kalhi to smash into the
piece of living night. The Huntmaster began an odd kind of dance as more and
more of the creatures swept in from the ceiling. But the Hunter continued to
dance and soon Garron felt the magic growing in the Hunter. His turned to stare
at the man in surprise.
"They
are drawn to my magic. Hurry, these little birds of prey are not our quarry. I
will lead them away." Garron nodded and rushed forward, forcing himself to
continue running despite his aching lungs and bloody leg.
His
footfalls echoed through the Carcel, the noise mixing with the sound of
Gunthar's battle and his own labored breathing. The sound followed Garron as he
ran through the door into the Heart.
Four glowing
pillars illuminated the room. Nahl-thenor had not been able to free the other
demons yet. There was still a chance. He stumbled forward and grabbed a hold of
the Staff of Sentinels. He stopped and stared upward. There was a man held to
one of the pillars with magic. The man's body hung half in the shadows half
out.
"Harold-"Garron
began.
Before
he knew what was happening, Garron was hurtled across the room to slam into a
wall. His Spectacles flew across the room, disorienting him further as he
bounced across the room. Somehow he held onto the Staff.
"Hello,"
a dark raspy voice spoke from the darkness. There was something unsettling
about the voice, something that sent a shiver up his spine. Garron lifted his
head to see a huge silhouette outlined by the green glow of the pillars. Even
though he could barely see the creature, he felt fear filling his entire being.
He set himself to fight the emotion; terror was just one of the hundred weapons
in a Daemon's arsenal.
"Nahl-thenor.
I know you. You will be bound once more!" Garron shouted surging to his
feet. Magical energy slammed into Garron's chest, taking his breath and
throwing him back to the ground.
"You
live at pleasure. My servants have killed most of the other inhabitants of this
structure, but I had them save you for me. The Masters of this prison have held
me for over a millennium. Most are beyond my reach. You will suffer for them.
And after many years, when you finally reached the afterlife, you will tell
them tales of such pain that their spirits will be driven mad!"
Nahl-thenor screamed, spittle spraying across the room.
The
words to the binding spell left Garron's mouth and snaked their way around the
demon. The monster's will pounded into Garron. He had never even imagined such
strength could exist. He dropped to his knees, groaning.
"Did
you really think you were powerful enough to do anything to me? Do you think I
would have allowed you to live if you had the slightest chance of defeating
me?" The demon laughed again; Garron wondered if his imprisonment had
driven the creature mad.
Garron's
mind reached into the staff to draw forth the power locked within. There was no
way they creature could know about the other Sentinels’ sacrifice. The power of
the staff gave him strength enough to stand and it was Nahl-thenor that was
brought to his knees.
Garron's
will slammed into Nahl-thenor's. They sparred, mental blades slashing against
mental blades, unseen shields stopping invisible attacks. If their battle the
day before had been two Titans warring this was two armies of Titans.
Nahl-thenor
howled in pain as he was thrust backwards towards the crystal pillars. The
green light illuminated the monster's face for just a second. Garron howled in
unison with the monster as the sight burned his eyes. Smoke rose from Garron's
face as his eyes liquefied and ran down his cheeks.
The
entire world became a thing of darkness, and vile things were born in the
darkness. They slashed and hacked at Garron, claws sliced into his shoulders
and into his back. He screamed, the blood rolling down his body.
He
could feel the demon rise to his feet even as he fell to his knees. The Daemon
was to powerful.
"Master,
do not give up. You are winning!" Harold' voice cut through the pain and
the darkness.
Garron
reached into the staff, drawing the last of its power, then he hurled all of it
at the demon. There was a slamming noise, as if someone was shutting a door.
The power within Garron surged; the demon was locked away once more.
"Master,"
Harold said. Garron's head was resting in the boy's lap. How had he gotten
there? The pain seemed to be fading. He needed the staff.
"Accckk.
Sentinel, what have you gone and done to yourself?" Gunthar seemed to be
speaking from far away. His words were labored, as if he was injured, but
Garron could not see how badly.
"He
saved us, he saved us all," Harold murmured.
"Staff…need
staff…" Garron croaked. He felt the staff thrust into his hands. He
gripped it tightly with both hands, concentrating as best he could. He felt his
power, what remained of it, flow into the staff. He would do his duty in the
next world, just as he had in this one
